When You Next See Lightning
by greysnyper
Summary: Tim and Bruce don't exactly sort feelings.


There's darkness in the cave. Then a path of paperwork, some fallen where Tim has failed to pick up. It's late already, but Bruce's shift at the new League base had ended late. There had also been the call to New York, since Oracle has yet to establish much contact with the latest Justice League.

Dick needed to know.

The flight back to Gotham had been short but endurable. Especially with Richard's reaction still fresh in Bruce's mind. Sometimes a voice recording could capture enough, but each sense of unearned satisfaction slips with the miles narrowing between Bruce and Tim.

It'd be polite to let Tim know. Partners talk, and _especially_ family...

It's all in the timing though; the cruel thing keeping some wounds fresh, while stealing away the ability for others to bleed.

_I thought it was going to be someone else._

How true and hateful that statement can be.

Clark had stopped Bruce before he had left, speaking Bruce's name as if it were a warning. Sometimes, Clark hates a secret.

And Bruce had answered as honest as he could. He himself as fine, suffering from a long day. He's got things to do, now. A waver at the end of their smalltalk showing just how uncertain Bruce is about the upcoming tasks.

Dick had always understood...

"Tim."

There's a ruffling of papers from the Robin, hunching over Bruce's desk. "I'll clean up. Alfred went to bed, but I won't be here long."

Focused, as always. Bruce can make out homework and remembers that it's close to finals for high school students. There's also a brand new book on relationships that doesn't appear to have been cracked open yet. The rest of the clutter are loose files from Bruce's stash of information and one or two dozen printouts from Oracle's directory.

"You should sleep," Bruce offers, trying not to sound commanding. This isn't an order.

"First period spare," Tim automatically answers. "I'll be fine. Did you guys figure out the Legion of Heroes thing?"

"Tim..."

The reading stops, Boy Wonder frozen with his fingers over a line. Then, carefully, Robin looks up. The glow from the lamp almost makes for him a mask of shadow. The eyes are supposed to look open and willing, but Bruce knows better. Tim will dismiss or assure as needed, not meaning to play Bruce as a fool.

"Wally West is back."

Whatever Tim had been expecting, those words are not it. "Pardon?"

"The Legion returned to intervene on history's behalf. They had a way to bring back West and his family. His...wife and twins."

Bruce is careful not to call Wally the Flash. He's careful to lay out exactly who has returned. He's reading Tim like a book and hating himself for it.

"Oh," Tim draws back, the chair shifting silently as it swivels. "That's...really good news."

"Yes."

No.

"I should...get to bed," Tim murmurs. Turning away, he shuts a text book and then starts stamping notes together into uniform piles as if he's clumsy, yet aware of being observed. Nervous, or agitated. 

Bruce wants to know how to do more than watch, so he says, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Tim says, pushing the chair back so he can reach for a loose page that had fallen in the time before Bruce's return. "It's life. It's...luck."

"No," Bruce sighs, moving two steps forward and wondering if Alfred had ever imparted such moments upon him. "What it is is _not_ fair, Tim. And that's why we're here. That's why...I need you."

Tim looks up and there's barely concealed fury glaring back. It's not blaming Bruce, though the Dark Knight may deserve much of it. But it's Tim's face that stays straight; a credit to his training.

And before him is why Bruce wants to push Tim out. Because friends are dead and Tim won't cry. Yet, Tim's also here because he's good enough. Like this, he'll survive.

Maybe.

"I'm just..." Tim shakes his head. "I'm thinking about it. How things like this happen. People, back from the dead. You don't expect it, and they...they just come back. Somehow. Some crazy, miraculous way. And yet...I don't know how. I can't..."

Control it.

Bruce nods, aware. He hasn't, after all, confronted the other about the questionable funding made after Tim had returned to the Titans. Enough to fully stock a lab or a bunker. There won't be asking because Bruce doesn't need to know.

_Once, Tim had manipulated funds to move a Batmobile to the west coast._

"If I don't go to school tomorrow, could you or Alfred write a note?"

Bruce exhales, a soft smile answering. It feels weak. "If you miss your finals, I'll rewrite the scores on their system, though you know how to do that just as well."

"I guess," Tim shifts, uncertain.

Down to a guess, much like anything. Their whole reliance on the future, on the unfathomable and on death.

"Tim?" Bruce offers.

"I think I just...get how you felt about Jason. About, not wanting to trust others not to die. I mean, after my mom I didn't think that my dad would. And after the school shooting, I didn't think Steph would die. And then Conner, so why didn't I see this coming?"

Rational anger, directed at his own logic. Another aspect of the training. Bruce turns until he's leaning against the desk and shakes his head, not knowing whether to comfort a person or an agent.

"I thought I knew," he confesses. "Things were more straight-forward when Jason died. Only, you know how that turns on it's head. Jason came back, just like Wally and Clark. But not like my parents. And not like Bart Allen."

Tim is wordless.

"It's okay to be angry," Bruce reaches out. "You're allowed that, Tim. Don't hate yourself for hating Wally right now. And don't hate yourself for being mad at Bart. That'll go away."

The pain won't, but the anger...

Tim nods, not looking back. "I'm happy for Wally," he states. 

"You just don't feel it now."

"No," drifts Tim.

"He'll be at the funeral," Bruce adds, shifting around to pick up the files that Tim would normally have returned to the library. It busies him. "He's also been told about Bart. He's come back to a different world."

"But not one without us," Tim states, sounding very much like he fails to know the meaning of his words. "Not one without hope."

The rest goes unspoken, but heard.

One without Bart.


End file.
